


Letter to Jack

by Saladscream



Series: The Ice King [11]
Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Established Relationship, First Time, M/M, POV Daniel Jackson, POV First Person, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 16:59:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9616958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saladscream/pseuds/Saladscream
Summary: Daniel understands something.





	

**Author's Note:**

> **** **This letter is written right after the events in Chapter 4 "The Return of the King"**.****
> 
> This is not a spur-of-the-moment quirk on my part. It's how it was always intended in the progression of the story. I *don't* think you need to go re-read chapter 4 in order to understand this letter. ;)
> 
> As usual, a thousand thanks to my lovely beta, Pepe. You rock!

Dear Jack,

You will never read this letter. As soon as I finish writing it, I will burn it, as I have burnt all the other letters. Not that I have ever written to you before. Believe it or not, this is actually the first time I’ve addressed this sort of letter to someone like you – i.e. a living person. 

You see, I occasionally write letters to dead people. I’ve been doing it ever since I can remember. As a child, I once wrote to Ramesses II. I can’t exactly recall the content of the missive but I do remember asking my mother how one should address a pharaoh in writing. She took it in her stride, used as she was to my idiosyncrasies. I was admittedly an unusual six-year-old. 

I’ve written to many people over the years and for many different reasons, but the one thing they all had in common was their deceased status. ~~My shrink~~ The man I pay to be my shrink would have a field day if he knew. 

If it’ll make you feel better, I never actually expected an answer to any of those letters. 

So, congratulations, Jack. You are the first living and breathing person in a long, odd list of people that includes Ramesses II, Champollion, Lacan, my parents and my great-uncle Theodore, among others. 

And it is fitting that you should stand out from the rest. You have ~~caused so much chaos~~ brought so many changes to my life, it is only natural that you should be the one to disturb my well-established introspective ritual. 

I have to say, writing you in this fashion isn’t as strange as I thought it would be. The active principle of the process is still the same, after all. Because while you are not dead (far from it, actually), you have in common with my usual dead addressees that you are definitely beyond my reach. 

And this is not just a figure of speech. It is a sad truth.

You are out of my league, Jack. 

Way out.

I knew that the first time I saw you enter that restaurant. 

Do you know you turn heads, Jack? Yes, I suppose you do. You wouldn’t be in this line of business if you were unaware of the effect you have on people.

Well, you literally turned heads that night. Men and women – forgetting the diminutive, costly content of their refined plates – turned to steal furtive glances at you. I don’t think anyone paid the slightest attention to the woman on your arm. You had them all under your spell, their inquisitive gaze lingering over you with impure interest. 

I should know: I was one of them.

You didn’t seem to notice. You only had eyes for your date, an elegant forty-something woman who in retrospect must have been a client. 

I envied you. 

I envied your compelling presence – that subtle, seductive power called charisma. I envied your ease, your self-confidence, the way you simply owned the space around you. 

I sometimes turn heads, too, but that doesn’t have anything to do with any sort of aura – it has to do with my net worth. You, however, captivate by the sheer force of your natural charm.

And that night, I envied the way that charm operated so effortlessly on everyone around. Genuine, respectful smiles blossomed on the most blaséd faces in your wake; from the maître d’hôtel to the waiter to the sommelier, you had them all eating out of your hand. 

I didn’t envy you their attention. I envied your innate sense of belonging.

And I envied your date.

I envied the way she seemed able to capture your interest, earn your smiles, draw your touches. There was not a single doubt in my mind that I wanted to experience those things myself – being the one you only have eyes for. My old, forgotten urges and thwarted desires were rekindled in a quirk of your lips. Stuff I thought I would and could never have.

I looked at my date and realized the amount of attraction I felt for her after a whole year of ~~courtship~~ engagement paled in comparison with the blast of raw need I’d just felt after thirty seconds of looking at you from across a crowded dining room.

That was it. That was how you started changing my life.

When I left the restaurant that night, I knew two things. First, I knew that I’d have to break it off with Sarah sooner than later. Until that point, I’d honestly thought the two of us could have a good life together, but meeting you forced me to reconsider everything. There was no way I could settle for a lifetime of lame convenience anymore.

Now make no mistake: ~~it wasn’t~~ I’m not saying this was a case of love at first sight or some such appalling Hallmark cliché. I do not have the weakness to believe in love, for one thing. All I’m saying is that you introduced the element of reasonable doubt that made me understand marrying this woman would be a mistake.

The second thing I knew for sure that night was that, if given a second chance, I’d do anything to be introduced to you.

People have always called me a lucky man, and I had always taken exception at their inconsiderate use of the adjective… until I saw you disappear into an elevator of my hotel one evening – and I was forced to see myself as indeed fortunate.

I asked Jean-Michel about you. And because the man knows everything there is to know in this city, he told me who you were, or rather what you were.

I can’t describe what the news did to me. 

An escort.

The tall, debonair, handsome man with the silver hair and the twinkling eyes and the killer smile. 

A prostitute.

I’m ashamed to say my first knee-jerk reaction was perplexity verging on disappointment. I had hoped for something far more… I don’t know, respectable? Honourable? Heroic? Yes, I guess I expected you to be a hero of some sort. 

What was definitely not heroic, however, was my second, more calculated reaction, Jack... 

Unrepentant exhilaration. 

Forgive me for objectifying you thus, but your occupation meant I could HAVE you. It meant I didn’t need to agonize over whether or not I’d be able to ~~sedu~~ catch your fancy. I didn’t need to wrack my brain for smart things to say, or smart things to wear. I didn’t need to torture myself over where to take you out, or how to invite you for the proverbial coffee, or if I could count on you to be discreet – or even interested. 

It meant I could just call a phone number and have you.

It’s appalling, I know, but I felt indecently relieved because I realised I could order you like one orders a pizza.

It was so awfully simple.

I could finally have a man in my bed on my own terms. I could finally just enjoy the physicality of the act without worrying about the emotions and the crippling mind-games because there wouldn’t be any. It was almost too good to be true. All these years spent secretly cursing my wealth when, ironically, it could get me this amazing luxury. 

A man in my bed – with no strings attached, no consequences.

Now don’t think paid encounters had never crossed my mind. They had – on numerous occasions – but my overzealous moral compass had balked at the idea. Prostitution had always seemed so dismally degrading for both parties. 

Until I met you. 

One look at you and prostitution suddenly looked sinfully appealing and disarmingly easy. And what did my moral compass know about life and needs, anyway? You were too good an opportunity to pass up on. 

All that was required was the right amount of money. And money’s something I have, as you’ve probably guessed by now. Some would say it’s my only quality in fact.

And so, for the first time in years, I felt myself blush from head to toe when I asked Jean-Michel to find me your number. 

You have to understand. Jean-Michel has always been like an older brother to me – or maybe an uncle, given the age difference. He was the one who took me under his wing when I was adopted by Theodore Ballard then put away to dry in the attic. It was not his job to look after me, and yet the man taught me to shave, to play French tarot and to cook a mean Carbonara. Most of the elementary life skills no one had ever bothered to teach me. He taught me how to survive in the unforgiving, loveless world I’d been dumped into.

Can you imagine asking your uncle for a male prostitute’s phone number?

Ever the professional, he didn’t bat an eyelid. And he got me your number.

I called you.

You gave me a time, I gave you a place. 

We discussed my requirements, you posed your conditions.

Standard business negotiation.

You were not my first experience with a man, but you were certainly my best. I don’t know if that was due to your skills or to the novelty of the situation. I’d be tempted to say it’s all down to you, because the novelty has worn off and you’re still the best ~~lover~~ sex I’ve ever had, but then I can’t really trust my judgement where you are concerned.

Because that’s the tragedy of it, Jack. The real kick in the head, as far as I’m concerned. I think I’ve come to care for you more than I’m supposed to. More than is strictly sensible. 

More than you’d feel comfortable with, at any rate.

I realize that now.

Last night you said something that showed me just how emotionally inadequate I am and how inappropriate my behaviour has been.

When I reproached you your use of endearments, you pointed out I had never given you my name.

My name.

I had forgotten to give it to you. An appalling oversight.

And all these months, you fucked a man without knowing his name – and you didn’t mind. You could have asked, but you probably didn’t care. It didn’t stop you. Certainly didn’t seem to faze you. A ~~fuck~~ trick is a trick is a trick, right?

What I can assure you was only a bad case of cringe-worthy obliviousness on my part, was just business as usual for you. You didn’t know my first name so you just called me something else – a sweet pet name. The one you presumably resort to in order to make your clients feel special.

Marketing strategy. I know all about those.

To think that I had the foolishness to believe for a split-second that your endearment sprang from some rush of affection you might have felt for me.

I now feel stupid.

Really, really fucking stupid.

And I’m mortified to realize I’ve been lying to myself. 

You are not a fantasy to me. Not anymore. I don’t know when you stopped being a fantasy, but you are now flesh and blood and free will, and it’s all scarily real and depressing, because I think the fantasy was safer to deal with. The fantasy liked me. Sometimes he even desired me.

My biggest mistake was that I let myself be taken in by what I thought I could read in your mouth, in your eyes, in your hands. I interpreted your smiles, your looks, your touches, when all I should’ve done was listen to your silence.

Why didn’t I realize earlier that you never said much to me?

Just quips and the occasional direction.

Stuff that you could say to anyone.

Stuff that you probably do say to everyone.

Add to this a few grunts, a couple of choice expletives, and that’s it. The transcripts of the verbal exchanges of all our encounters put together would barely fill the back of a postcard.

And yet… Yet, when you said my name last night for the first time, when you told me it was a pleasure to meet me, when you kissed me goodbye… It felt like you were sincere. 

I’m grasping at straws, aren’t I? 

Damn, but you’re good at this game. Good at pretending you’re more than just hired meat. 

And I’m so bad at bearing in mind that your interest in me is paid for.

What do you see in me, I wonder?

I’ve been crafting my persona for almost 21 years now, so I’m pretty sure I can venture a guess at what you see when you look at me. 

A cold, distant man, certainly. Because that’s what I need to be. 

A gutter-mouthed, kinky client, hopefully. Because that’s what I try to be.

Just another ~~body to take~~ hole to fuck, ultimately. Because… that’s what I am.

And in fact, it doesn’t matter what you see because the real me isn’t any of the above. The real me is bland and messed up and slightly pathetic. The real me writes letters to dead people. Letters no one will ever answer.

Whereas you… you are out of my league. 

Your days and nights must be filled with people like me. I saw their marks on your back; saw the hickeys and the welts and the bites: how greedy you make them.

How needy you make ~~them~~ us.

I think I finally understood something about you last night. 

You are an escort.

You are not mine. I can’t have you.

All this time, I thought I had you. A phone call and you were here, getting me out of my clothes and trying to kiss me. I sort of lost track of the fact that I was hiring you to do these things.

I kind of forgot that just because you kiss me and blow me and fuck me doesn’t mean you care about me.

Professionalism – that’s all it boils down to. You are a good, dedicated professional and you do your job well. Too well, maybe.

I don’t mean it unkindly. I do believe that, in a way, you actually care about me. The same way you care about all of us. I THINK you are a warm-hearted man, and someone with a real sense of duty. Unfortunately, what I think is nothing but guesswork.

All I know for sure about you is that you like to hear me give you filthy orders and you like to kiss.

And so forgive me if I’m selfish enough to keep on renting you. Renting your mouth, your eyes, your hands. Renting your cock. They ~~love~~ lie so well. 

I should let go of you – I mean nothing to you and you are too much for me – but it has become so easy to call you. And I sleep so well after a few hours in your arms.

Never mind.

My ridiculous heart can shrivel and die and turn to dust, for all I care. It’s not like I was using it much, anyway.

As long as I have you here to pretend we belong together, I’ll be content and I’ll be… 

Yours,  
Daniel


End file.
